split second before. He could not possibly know what was actually happening
now within the bomb � subatomic speeds are too great and the time intervals
too small. He was like the bird that flew backward; he could see where he
had been, but he never knew where he was going.
Nevertheless, it was his responsibility, and his alone, not only to
maintain the bomb at a high input-output efficiency, but to see that the
reaction never passed the critical point and progressed into mass
explosion.
But that was impossible. He could not be sure; he could never be sure.
He could bring to the job all of the skill and learning of the finest
technical education, and use it to reduce the hazard to the lowest
mathematical probability, but the blind laws of chance which appear to rule
in subatomic action might turn up a royal flush against him and defeat his
most skillful play.
And each atomic engineer knew it, knew that he gambled not only with his
own life, but with the lives of countless others, perhaps with the lives of
every human being on the planet. Nobody knew quite what such an explosion
would do. The most conservative estimate assumed that, in addition to
destroying the plant and its personnel completely, it would tear a chunk
out of the populous and heavily traveled Los Angeles-Oklahoma Road City a
hundred miles to the north.
That was the official, optimistic viewpoint on which the plant had been
authorized, and based on mathematics which predicted that a mass of uranium
would itself be disrupted on a molar scale, and thereby rendered
comparatively harmless, before progressive and accelerated atomic explosion
could infect the entire mass.
The atomic engineers, by and large, did not place faith in the official
theory. They judged theoretical mathematical prediction for what it was
worth � precisely nothing, until confirmed by experiment.
But even from the official viewpoint, each atomic engineer while on watch
carried not only his own life in his hands, but the lives of many others �
how many, it was better not to think about. No pilot, no general, no
surgeon ever carried such a daily, inescapable, ever-present weight of
responsibility for the lives of other people as these men carried every
time they went on watch, every time they touched a vernier screw or read a
dial.
They were selected not alone for their intelligence and technical training,
but quite as much for their characters and sense of social responsibility.
Sensitive men were needed � men who could fully appreciate the importance
of the charge intrusted to them; no other sort would do. But the burden of
responsibility was too great to be born indefinitely by a sensitive man.
It was, of necessity, a psychologically unstable condition. Insanity was an
occupational disease.
Dr. Cummings appeared, still buckling the straps of the armor worn to guard
against stray radiation. "What's up?" he asked Silard.
"I had to relieve Harper."
"So I guessed. I met him coming up. He was sore as hell � just glared at
me."
"I know. He wants an immediate hearing. That's why I had to send for you."
Cummings grunted, then nodded toward the engineer, anonymous in
all-inclosing armor. "Who'd I draw?"
"Erickson."
"Good enough. Squareheads can't go crazy � eh, Gus?"
Erickson looked up momentarily and answered, "That's your problem," and
returned to his work.
Cummings turned back to Silard and commented: "Psychiatrists don't seem
very popular around here. O.K. � I relieve you sir."
"Very well, sir."
Silard threaded his way through the zigzag in the tanks of water which
surrounded the disintegration room. Once outside this outer shield, he
divested himself of the cumbersome armor, disposed of it in the locker room
provided, and hurried to a lift. He left the lift at the tube station,
underground, and looked around for an unoccupied capsule. Finding one, he
strapped himself in, sealed the gasketed door, and settled the back of his
head into the rest against the expected surge of acceleration.
Five minutes later he knocked at the door of the office of the general
superintendent, twenty miles away.
The power plant proper was located in a bowl of desert hills on the Arizona
plateau. Everything not necessary to the immediate operation of the plant �
administrative offices, television station and so forth � lay beyond the
hills. The buildings housing these auxiliary functions were of the most
durable construction technical ingenuity could devise. It was hoped that,
if der tag ever came, occupants would stand approximately the chance of
survival of a man going over Niagara Falls in barrel.
Silard knocked again. He was greeted by a male secretary, Steinke. Silard
recalled reading his case history. Formerly one of the most brilliant of
the young engineers, he had suffered a blanking out of the ability to
handle mathematical operations. A plain case of fugue, but there had been
nothing that the poor devil could do about it � he had been anxious enough
with his conscious mind to stay on duty. He had been rehabilitated as an
office worker.
Steinke ushered him into the .superintendent's private office. Harper was
there before him, and returned his greeting with icy politeness. The
superintendent was cordial, but Silard thought he looked tired, as if the
twenty-four-hour-a-day strain was too much for him.
"Come in, Doctor, come in. Sit down. Now tell me about this. I'm a little
surprised. I thought Harper was one of my steadiest men."
"I don't say he isn't, sir."
"Well?"
"He may be perfectly all right, but your instruction to me are not to take
any chances."
"Quite right." The superintendent gave the engineer silent and tense in his
chair, a troubled glance, then returned his attention to Silard. "Suppose
you tell me about it."
Silard took a deep breath. "While on watch as psychological observer at the
control station I noticed that the engineer of the watch seemed preoccupied
and less responsive to stimuli than usual. During my off-watch observation
of this case, over a period of the past seven days, I have suspected an
increasing lack of attention. For example, while playing contract bridge,
he now occasionally asks for a review of the bidding, which is contrary to
his former behavior pattern.
"Other similar data are available. To cut it short, at 3:11 today, while on
watch, I saw Harper, with no apparent reasonable purpose in mind, pick up a
wrench used only for operating the valves of the water shield and approach
the trigger. I relieved him of duty and sent him out of the control room."
"Chief!" Harper calmed himself somewhat and continued: "If this witch
doctor knew a wrench from an oscillator, he'd know what I was doing. The
wrench was on the wrong rack. I noticed it, and picked it up to return it
to its proper place. On the way, I stopped to check the readings!"
The superintendent turned inquiringly to Dr. Silard.
"That may be true. Granting that it is true," ans
wered the psychiatrist
doggedly, "my diagnosis still stands. Your behavior pattern has altered;
your present actions are unpredictable, and I can't approve you for
responsible work without a complete checkup."
General Superintendent King drummed on the desk top and sighed. Then he
spoke slowly to Harper "Cal, you're a good boy, and, believe me, I know how
you feel. But there is no way to avoid it � you've got to go up for the
psychometricals, and accept whatever disposition the board makes of you."
He paused, but Harper maintained an expressionless silence. "Tell you what,
son � why don't you take a few days leave? Then, when you come back, you
can go up before the board, or transfer to another department away from the
bomb, whichever you prefer." He looked to Silard for approval, and received
a nod.
But Harper was not mollified. "No, chief," he protested. "It won't do.
Can't you see what's wrong? It's this constant supervision. Somebody always
watching the back of your neck, expecting you to go crazy. A man can't even
shave in private. We're jumpy about the most innocent acts, for fear some
head doctor, half batty himself, will see it and decide it's a sign we're
slipping. Good grief, what do you expect?" His outburst having run its
course, he subsided into a flippant cynicism that did not quite jell. "O.K.
� never mind of it, chief," he added, "and I'm glad to have worked under
you. Good-bye."
King kept the pain in his eyes out of his voice. "Wait a minute, Cal �
you're not through here. Let's forget about the vacation. I'm transferring
you to the radiation laboratory. You belong in research, anyhow; I'd never
have spared you from it to stand watches if I hadn't been short on No. 1
men.
"As for the constant psychological observation, I hate it as much as you
do. I don't suppose you know that they watch me about twice as hard as they
watch you duty engineers." Harper showed his surprise, but Silard nodded in
Manning? No, he was before your time. We didn't have psychological
observers then. Manning was able and brilliant. Furthermore, he was always
cheerful; nothing seemed to bother him.
"I was glad to have him on the bomb, for he was always alert, and never
seemed nervous about working with it � in fact, he grew more buoyant and
cheerful the longer he stood control watches. I should have known that was
a very bad sign, but I didn't, and there was no observer to tell me so.
"His technician had to slug him one night. He found him dismounting the
safety interlocks on the trigger. Poor old Manning never pulled out of it �
he's been violently insane ever since. After Manning cracked up, we worked
out the present system of two qualified engineers and an observer for every
watch. It seemed the only thing to do."
"I suppose so, chief," Harper mused, his face no longer sullen, but still
unhappy. "It's a hell of a situation just the same."
"That's putting it mildly." King rose and put out his hand. "Cal, unless
you're dead set on leaving us, I'll expect to see you at the radiation
laboratory tomorrow. Another thing � I don't often recommend this, but it
might do you good to get drunk tonight."
King had signed to Silard to remain after the young man left. Once the door
was closed he turned back to the psychiatrist. "There goes another one �
and one of the best. Doctor, what am I going to do?"
Silard pulled at his cheek. "I don't know," he admitted. "The hell of it
is, Harper's absolutely right. It does increase the strain on them to know
that they are being watched � and yet they have to be watched. Your
psychiatric staff isn't doing too well, either. It makes us nervous to be
around the bomb � the more so because we don't understand it. And it's a
strain on us to be hated and despised as we are. Scientific detachment is
difficult under such conditions; I'm getting jumpy myself."
King ceased pacing the floor and faced the doctor. "But there must be some
solution � " he insisted.
Silard shook his head. "It's beyond me, Superintendent. I see no solution
from the standpoint of psychology."
"No? Hm-m-m. Doctor, who is the top man in your field?"
"Eh?"
"Who is the recognized No. 1 man in handling this sort of thing?"
"Why, that's hard to say. Naturally, there isn't any one leading
psychiatrist in the world; we specialize too much. I know what you mean,
though. You don't want the best industrial-temperament psychometrician; you
want the best all-around man for psychoses nonlesional and situational.
That would be Lentz."
"Go on."
"Well � he covers the whole field of environmental adjustment. He's the man
who correlated the theory of optimum tonicity with the relaxation technique
that Korzybski had developed empirically. He actually worked under
Korzybski himself, when he was a young student � it's the only thing he's
vain about."
"He did? Then he must be pretty old; Korzybski died in � What year did he
die?"
"I started to say that you must know his work in symbology � theory of
abstraction and calculus of statement, all that sort of thing � because of
its applications to engineering and mathematical physics."
"That Lentz � yes, of course. But I had never thought of him as a
psychiatrist."
"No, you wouldn't, in your field. Nevertheless, we are inclined to credit
him with having done as much to check and reduce the pandemic neuroses of
the Crazy Years as any other man, and more than any man left alive."
"Where is he?"
"Why, Chicago, I suppose. At the Institute."
"Get him here."
"Eh?"
"Get him down here. Get on that visiphone and locate him. Then have Steinke
call the Port of Chicago, and hire a stratocar to stand by for him. I want
to see him as soon as possible � before the day is out." King sat up in his
chair with the air of a man who is once more master of himself and the
situation. His spirit knew that warming replenishment that comes only with
reaching a decision. The harassed expression was gone.
Silard looked dumfounded. "But, Superintendent," he expostulated, "you
can't ring for Dr. Lentz as if he were a junior clerk. He's . . . he's
Lentz."
looking for sympathy, either. He'll come. If necessary, turn on the heat
from Washington. Have the White House call him. But get him here at once.
Move!" King strode out of the office.
When Erickson came off watch he inquired around and found that Harper had
left for town. Accordingly, he dispensed with dinner at the base, shifted
into "drinkin' clothes," and allowed himself to be dispatched via tube to
Paradise.
Paradise, Arizona, was a hard little boom town, which owed its existence to
the power plant. It was dedicated exclusively to the serious business of
detaching the personnel of the plant from their inordinate salaries. In
this worthy project they received much cooperation from the pl
ant personnel
themselves, each of whom was receiving from twice to ten times as much
money each pay day as he had ever received in any other job, and none of
whom was certain of living long enough to justify saving for old age.
Besides, the company carried a sinking fund in Manhattan for their
dependents; why be stingy?
It was said, with some truth, that any entertainment or luxury obtainable
in New York City could be purchased in Paradise. The local chamber of
commerce had appropriated the slogan of Reno, Nevada, "Biggest Little City
in the World." The Reno boosters retaliated by claiming that, while any
town that close to the atomic power plant undeniably brought thoughts of
death and the hereafter, Hell's Gates would be a more appropriate name than
Paradise.
Erickson started making the rounds. There were twenty-seven places licensed
to sell liquor in the six blocks of the main street of Paradise. He
expected to find Harper in one of them, and, knowing the man's habits and
tastes, he expected to find him in the first two or three he tried.
He was not mistaken. He found Harper sitting alone at a table in the rear
of DeLancey's Sans Souci Bar. DeLancey's was a favorite of both of them.
There was an old-fashioned comfort about its chrome-plated bar and red
leather furniture that appealed to them more than did the spectacular
fittings of the up-to-the minute places. DeLancey was conservative; he
stuck to indirect lighting and soft music; his hostesses were required to
be fully clothed, even in the evening.
The fifth of Scotch in front of Harper was about two thirds full. Erickson
shoved three fingers in front of Harper's face and demanded, "Count!"
"Three," announced Harper. "Sit down, Gus."
"That's correct," Erickson agreed, sliding his big frame into a low-slung
chair. "You'll do � for now. What was the outcome?"
"Have a drink. Not," he went on, "that this Scotch is any good. I think
Lance has taken to watering it. I surrendered, horse and foot."
"Lance wouldn't do that � stick to that theory and you'll sink in the
sidewalk up to your knees. How come you capitulated? I thought you planned
to beat 'em about the head and shoulders, at least."
"I did," mourned Harper, "but, cripes, Gus, the chief is right. If a brain
mechanic says you're punchy, he has got to back him up and take you off the
bomb. The chief can't afford to take a chance."
"Yeah, the chief's all right, but I can't learn to love our dear
psychiatrists. Tell you what � let's find us one, and see if he can feel
pain. I'll hold him while you slug 'im."
"Oh, forget it, Gus. Have a drink."
"A pious thought � but not Scotch. I'm going to have a martini; we ought to
eat pretty soon."
"I'll have one, too."
"Do you good." Erickson lifted his blond head and bellowed, "Israfell"
A large, black person appeared at his elbow. "Mistuh Erickson! Yes, suh!"
"Izzy, fetch two martinis. Make mine with Italian." He turned back to
Harper. "What are you going to do now, Cal?"
"Radiation laboratory."
"Well, that's not so bad. I'd like to have a go at the matter or rocket
fuels myself. I've got some ideas."
Harper looked mildly amused. "You mean atomic fuel for interplanetary
flight? The problem's pretty well exhausted. No, son, the stratosphere is
the ceiling until we think up something better than rockets. Of course, you
could mount the bomb in a ship, and figure out some jury rig to convert its
radiant output into push, but where does that get you? One bomb, one ship �
and twenty years of mining in Little America has only produced enough